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Issued Weekly. Entered as Second-class Matter at the New York Post Office, by Street & Smith, 79-89 Seventh Ave., New York.

Copyright, 1915, by Street & Smith. O. G. Smith and G. C. Smith, Proprietors.

Terms to NICK CARTER STORIES Mail Subscribers.

(Postage Free.)

Single Copies or Back Numbers, 5c. Each.

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No. 160. NEW YORK, October 2, 1915. Price Five Cents.

THE YELLOW LABEL;
Or, NICK CARTER AND THE SOCIETY LOOTERS.

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Edited by CHICKERING CARTER.

CHAPTER I.
AN ENTERPRISING WAITER.

Alfred Knox Atherton was one of the most popular members of the “Marmawell Club.” He was a man in the prime of life, but, in spite of his wealth and good looks—and in spite of the schemes of designing mothers—he was still unmarried.

He had a country house in the Berkshires, and a luxuriously furnished bachelor’s apartment on Park Avenue. He was also the owner of a small, up-to-date steam yacht, which bore the uncommon name of The Philosopher’s Stone.

As is usually the case in such places, most of the waiters at the Marmawell Club were foreigners. One among them is worthy of special mention. He was the cardroom waiter, who went by the name of Max Berne, and was understood to hail from that land of model hotel keepers and waiters, Switzerland.

Max evidently had seen a great deal of the world, although he was still a young man. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome, Madrid, St. Petersburg—we beg pardon, Petrograd—mention any of these cities to Max, and he could tell you which was the quickest way of getting there, which were the best hotels to stay at, how much they would charge you, what the cooking was like, and what quality of cigars and wines they stocked.

Needless to say, this made him very popular with the members of the Marmawell. He was, in fact, a perfect encyclopedia of information on all matters relating to the leading cities of Europe, and he could speak French, Italian, and Spanish as fluently as he spoke English.

That evening he was hovering over one of the tables in the deserted cardroom, giving a deft touch here and there, when Atherton walked in.

“Evening, Max!” the social favorite said affably. “Do you know if Mr. [Pg 3]Frost is about?”

He referred to Jackson Frost—“Jack Frost,” as his friends called him—a young man of excellent family and expensive tastes, who belonged to the so-called “sporting set.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Max, in his silky, deferential voice. “Mr. Frost is in the writing room. He told me to let him know when you arrived. Shall I tell him you are here, or will you go up to him?”

“Is he alone in the writing room?”

“No, sir—at least, he wasn’t when I was there. There were several other gentlemen in the room.”

“Then ask him to join me here, and, after you have given him my message, bring me some Scotch.”

Max noiselessly retired, and presently returned with the whisky.

“Mr. Frost will be down in a moment, sir,” he said, as he placed the articles at Atherton’s elbow.

He had scarcely spoken before Jackson Frost appeared, a tall young fellow, faultlessly dressed.

“So, here you are!” he said, addressing Atherton. “A bit late, aren’t you?”

Before Atherton could reply, two other members of the club strolled into the room, a fact which brought a frown of annoyance to the man’s handsome face.

While the newcomers were giving their orders to Max, the latter stood before them in an attitude of respectful attention. All the time, however, he was straining his ears to catch what was passing between Atherton and Frost.

“Is everything arranged?” he heard the latter ask, in a low tone.

“Yes,” Atherton replied. “I came to tell you what the arrangements are, but we can’t talk here.”

“Come up to my room,” suggested Frost. “I’ll say I’m going up to dress for dinner, and you can follow me in a few minutes.[Pg 4]”

“Right,” said Atherton. “We’ll be safe from interruption there.”

By this time the others had given their orders to Max, and one of them turned to Jackson Frost.

“We’re trying to make up a four for cards; would you and Mr. Atherton care to join us?”

“Thanks, but I haven’t time,” said Frost. “I’m dining out to-night, and I’m just going up to my room to change.”

“And I’m only staying for a few minutes,” put in Atherton. “As a matter of fact, I only dropped in for a drink, and as soon as I’ve finished it, I’m off. By the way, did I pay you for this Scotch, Max?”

“No, sir,” said the waiter.

Atherton paid, and Max left the room.

The club bar was in the basement, but instead of going there to procure the drinks which had been ordered, Max glided to the end of the entrance hall, walked leisurely up one flight of stairs, and then, being out of sight from below, darted up two other flights.

It seemed a curious thing for a cardroom waiter to do. On the fourth floor of the building were quite a number of private rooms, which were reserved by members who wished to have a place where they could spend a night, or where they could change into evening dress—or out of it—without the trouble of going home. One of these rooms—it was number twenty-five—was rented by Jackson Frost.

Reaching this fourth floor, Max did another curious thing—an extremely curious thing for a cardroom waiter to do.

Approaching the door of Frost’s room, he drew a bunch of skeleton keys from his pocket, selected one of them, and opened the door. Having gained access to the room, he darted across to the window, opened it an inch or two from the bottom, then hastily retreated, locking the door behind him and hurrying back downstairs.

Halfway down the last flight of stairs, he met Jackson Frost. Max humbly stepped aside to allow Frost to pass, and then went on to the bar, secured the drinks which had been ordered, and took them to the cardroom.

Atherton was still there, but two or three minutes later he rose to his feet, nodded to the two other members, and left the room.

“He’s going up to Frost’s room,” thought the waiter.

He glanced impatiently at his watch. It was five minutes to seven. In five minutes he would be off duty.

“Confound it!” he exclaimed inwardly. “Why couldn’t Atherton have waited that long? However, I don’t suppose he and Frost will finish their talk in five minutes. All the same, I hope Sachs won’t be late to-night.”

Sachs was the name of the waiter who was to relieve Max at seven o’clock. He was very punctual as a rule, and this was no exception. Just as the clock was striking seven, he appeared at the cardroom door.

“Anything new, Max?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Max answered shortly. “Good night.”

“What’s your rush?” asked Sachs, with a grin. “You seem to be in a tearing hurry.”

“I am,” was the answer, and without another word Max left the room.

If he was in such a desperate hurry to be off, though, one would have expected him to go straight down to the waiters’ room, change his clothes, and leave the prem[Pg 5]ises, but, instead of doing this, he repeated most of his curious performances of a few minutes earlier.

That is to say, he dawdled up the first flight of stairs, and then, as soon as he was out of sight of those in the entrance hall, he darted up to the fourth floor.

With catlike steps he glided to the door of room No. 25, and stood for a moment in a listening attitude.

A murmur of voices inside the room told him that Atherton and Frost were there. He could not hear what they were saying, but he had anticipated that, and that was why he had opened the window of Frost’s room.

Having satisfied himself of the whereabouts of the two, he stole to the door of number twenty-seven, adjoining, picked the lock, glided into the room, and closed the door behind him.

Groping his way softly along the dark room, he quietly opened the window and stepped out on the fire escape.

The platform of the fire escape extended from the window of number twenty-seven to that of number twenty-five, and all Max had to do was to creep along the iron grating until he was beside the window with which he had previously tampered.

When he reached it, he crouched down, hidden by the dark shade which had been drawn, and put his ear close to the crack.

He could now hear every word that was spoken, and, it was plain to be seen, it afforded him the liveliest satisfaction.

“So I was right!” he thought triumphantly, “I suspected it for some time, but now I know it. I must have some more tangible proof, though. I must see the thing done, and find out who else is in the plot. And then—farewell to the old Mar, and hurrah for a life of ease and luxury.”

CHAPTER II.
THE WAITER HAS A WIFE.

The waiter remained outside the window until he heard Atherton leave the room, then he stole back to number twenty-seven, left things exactly as he had found them, and descended to the waiters’ room, where he changed to street attire.

Ten minutes later he left the premises, and at the end of half an hour he let himself into a modest little flat in a “model” tenement house on East Seventy-seventh Street, near the river.

Here he proceeded to do other things which were out of the ordinary for a club waiter.

For instance, he changed his clothes once more, and, after he had done so, he loaded a revolver and stowed it away in one of his pockets. He put a fresh battery into an electric flash light, and slipped that into another pocket.

He next went down to a room in the basement, in which a motor cycle was stored, and he spent half an hour in pumping up the tires, tinkering with the lamp, oiling the bearings, filling the tank, and generally putting the machine in order for a run.

Finally he returned to the little sitting room, set out a frugal supper for two, consisting of cold beef and potato salad from a delicatessen store, bread and cheese, and a bottle of first-class claret—the last named being from the cellars of the Marmawell.[Pg 6]

When all these preparations were completed, he lighted a pipe and consulted his watch.

“Half past nine,” he mused. “I needn’t start for the theater for another hour yet.”

He opened a black leather case and drew out a well-worn mandolin. Dropping into an easy-chair, he started to play the instrument in a fashion which proved that he was both a passionate lover of music and a capable performer.

Any one popping into the little room and seeing him leaning back in that easy-chair, with a far-away, dreamy look in his half-closed eyes, and a rapt expression on his face, would have found it hard to believe that he was capable of the side he had shown shortly before.

To say the least, he must have been a curious combination of the poetic and the matter of fact, of the dreamer and the doer, otherwise that revolver in his pocket, for instance, was decidedly out of place.

Such was the case, and, moreover, the man had had many ups and downs, which his pretty wife had shared.

The latter was an American girl, who had married him some five years before, and who now—because funds were low—had returned to her former calling. In other words, she was back on the stage, in the chorus of a Broadway production.

Elaine Stowe was the name by which she was professionally known.

Max was a most devoted husband, and never allowed his young wife to return from the theater alone. As a rule, he left the flat about half past ten, and was waiting at the stage door when Elaine came out.

To-night, however, he was so absorbed in his mandolin—and in other things—that he forgot all about the flight of time, and he was positively amazed when the door opened and there walked into the room a remarkably attractive and well-formed young woman, cheaply but effectively dressed, with an innocent, babyish face lighted by a pair of big blue eyes.

“Elaine!” he ejaculated, jumping up and laying his instrument aside. “Why are you home so early to-night?”

“Early!” the girl echoed with a laugh, unbuttoning her gloves. “Do you call half past eleven early?”

“Never!” he cried, dragging out his watch. “By George, so it is! What a thoughtless brute I am to let you come home alone. I fully intended to come for you as usual, but I just sat down to play for an hour, and the combination of the music and my plans for the future made me forget everything else.”

“Your plans for the future?” Elaine repeated, with just a touch of irony in her voice. “More plans of making our fortunes, I suppose?”

Her husband nodded.

“Yes,” he answered. “I know what you think, but you’re wrong this time, as it happens. These plans are the real thing, and I’m going to put them through.”

Elaine shrugged her dainty shoulders.

“I wonder how often I’ve heard that,” she said wistfully. “We’re always going to make our fortunes, but somehow or other something always turns up at the last moment and messes up our schemes.”

“I’ll tell you while we’re having supper,” Max replied. “I haven’t too much time, for I must start in three-quarters of an hour.”

“Start? Where are you going?” his wife asked curiously, as she removed her hat and coat.[Pg 7]

“That doesn’t come until almost the end of the story,” was the answer. “Sit down and you’ll hear it all.”

The girl obeyed wonderingly, and Max began.

“Do you remember,” he said, “that very shortly after I started work at the Marmawell, I told you I had a suspicion that Alfred Knox Atherton was more or less crooked?”

“Yes,” answered Elaine, “you’ve said so often, and you made the same statement about another member of the club—Frost, I think was the name. You told me you thought he was so crooked that if he ever fell out of bed he could rock himself to sleep on the floor.”

“That’s right,” agreed the waiter, with an appreciative grin. “I couldn’t give you any reason for my suspicions, though. It was just instinct, I guess. You know the old saying, ‘set a thief to catch a thief.’ It must have been that. Being a rogue myself, I instinctively spotted a fellow rogue when I saw him. Anyhow, I was convinced that Atherton and ‘Jack Frost,’ as they call him, were playing some deep game of a crooked nature, and I determined to find out what it was.”

“And have you found out?” asked Elaine.

“I certainly have, and it is a deeper game and a more crooked one than ever I dreamed of.”

“This sounds interesting,” remarked the girl, pouring out a glass of wine for herself. “Do tell me what you have discovered.”

“Well, about half past six this evening,” her husband explained, “Frost came to the club and asked me if Atherton was there. When I told him he was not, he said he would go up to the writing room, and I was to let him know when Atherton arrived. There was nothing much in that, of course, but it showed me that Atherton and Frost had arranged to meet at the club this evening.

“Presently Atherton put in an appearance. He came into the cardroom, which was deserted at the time, and asked me if Frost was about. I told him Frost was in the writing room, and asked him if he would go up. His answer showed me that he wished to see Frost alone, for he asked me if there was anybody else in the writing room, and when I said there was, he told me to tell Frost to come down to the cardroom. It was plainer than ever that they shared some secret, so naturally I determined by hook or crook to hear what they had to say to each other.

“I delivered Atherton’s message to Frost and the latter came down to the cardroom. Before he had a chance to say anything of a personal nature to Atherton, however, a couple of other men walked in, and I saw Atherton scowl at them.

“While I was taking their orders, I kept my ears open, and heard Atherton and Frost arrange to meet in the latter’s private room upstairs.

“As soon as I got that tip, I slipped upstairs, used a skeleton key on Frost’s door, and opened his window a little from the bottom. I passed Frost on the lower flight, and a few minutes later Atherton left the cardroom and went upstairs.

“That was five minutes to seven, and at seven I was relieved. The moment I was free I sneaked upstairs once more, and made use of the room adjoining Frost’s. By picking the lock of that room, and softly opening the window, I managed to get out on the fire escape, and in that way reached Frost’s window. The crack I had left[Pg 8] made it possible for me to hear every word they said, without the risk of being seen.”

“Very clever!” commented Elaine. “And what did you hear?”

CHAPTER III.
“GOOD-BY TO THE SIMPLE LIFE!”

He told her what he had heard, and her big, blue eyes grew bigger still with incredulous amazement.

“You take my breath away!” she gasped. “Alfred Knox Atherton, one of the idols of New York society, who is hand in glove with most of the ‘big bugs’! It sounds unbelievable.”

“It’s a bit of an eye opener, isn’t it?” chuckled the waiter. “What a sensation I could create if I hunted up a reporter and filled him up with the details of that little conversation in Frost’s room! But, of course, I’m not going to do anything of the kind. It’s too good a thing to give away. It’s a veritable gold mine, and I’m going to work it for all it’s worth.”

“Blackmail, I suppose?” the girl suggested calmly. “You will interview Mr. Atherton and tell him what you have discovered, and threaten to expose him unless he buys your silence?”

“Not so fast, my dear! That’s not quite the idea. I shall certainly interview Atherton and tell him what I have discovered, but instead of demanding money as the price of my silence, I shall demand a place in the firm. In other words, I shall say to Atherton: ‘I know everything. Let me stand in with you and share the loot, or I’ll give away the show!’”

The girl nodded approvingly.

“Yes, that will be much better than merely demanding money,” she said.

“You bet your life it will!” declared her husband, and it was curious to note that he seemed perfectly at home with American slang. Indeed, there was nothing suggestive of Switzerland about him now. “Instead of a lump sum,” he went on, “it means a comfortable income for the rest of our lives. Better still, it means action, excitement, risk. Perhaps, even the chance of a tussle with Nick Carter.”

Elaine shivered at the mention of the great detective’s name, but the man laughed light-heartedly.

“You don’t like to hear that name?” he asked teasingly.

“I don’t,” his wife confessed. “Nick Carter has never really caught us, but he’s spoiled more than one pretty plan of ours, and he has always seemed a sort of bogy man to me. I wish you hadn’t mentioned him just now, and I don’t see how you can think of him at such a time—at least, how you can make a joke of it. Whenever Nick Carter comes to my mind, I find my courage oozing out, and my feet getting cold.”

Her husband leaned over the corner of the table, gave her a great hug, and kissed her.

“Cheer up, little girl!” he said. “Nick Carter isn’t going to hurt you. Trust me for that.”

“But what if he catches you? Could anything hurt me more than that?”

“But he isn’t going to catch me, dear. I’ll admit that he hasn’t really tried as yet, but I’m perfectly ready to have him do it. He’s certainly a wonder, but I think I can tie him up in a knot, and I like to think of him when I’m planning to turn a trick. It puts me on my[Pg 9] mettle, and makes me plan more carefully than I otherwise might. Therefore, I’m really glad he’s on the job. You mustn’t have such fancies. They’re no real part of you. You’re the pluckiest girl who ever bucked up against the law, and you know you would tackle anything.”

Elaine’s smile was serious.

“I’ve proved that I’m not a coward, and I like excitement as well as you do. I come nearer being afraid of Nick Carter, though, than of anybody else. He’s been so successful. They say he never really went after a crook, big or little, without getting him in the end, no matter how long it took.”

Max reseated himself again.

“The longest string of victories is sometimes broken,” he said confidently. “There’s no doubt that Carter has set a hot pace, but he can’t keep it up. Somebody is going to spoil his record some of these days—and why not yours truly?”

The girl shrugged her shoulders.

“I know there’s no use of arguing with you,” she said. “I wouldn’t have you different, anyway. If you weren’t so sure of yourself, you couldn’t have done half the things you’ve done, and very likely you wouldn’t have won me, either. Tell me this, though: Supposing Mr. Atherton tries to bluff you when you go to see him? Supposing he indignantly denies your charge, and orders you to leave the house, and all that sort of thing, what will you do? You see, you can’t prove that he and Mr. Frost are leading this double life. You were alone when you listened to their talk this evening, and if they both deny that they said what you say they did, you have no witness to bring forward.”

“Don’t you fret. I’ve thought of that,” the man informed her. “Before I pay that little call on Atherton, I’m going to have positive proof of his guilt, and I’m going to know who his other accomplices are.”

“But how can you obtain such a proof?”

“By going to Freehold. It’s now ten minutes to twelve, and the job is fixed for three o’clock in the morning. I have tuned up my motor bike, and everything is ready. If I leave here about quarter after twelve, I ought to reach Freehold easily by two o’clock.

“When I do so,” he continued, “I shall hide my machine, and keep watch on the Meadowview house. When I have seen all I want to see, I’ll come back here, and to-morrow I’ll interview Atherton. He’ll have to accept my terms when he finds out what I know, and then——”

He refilled his glass, and surveyed it with the critical eye of a connoisseur.

“Good-by to the Marmawell!” he said. “Good-by to the front row of the chorus! Good-by to the simple life in a tenement house! Exit all the things we hate, and enter all the things we love—ease and wealth and luxury!”

He drained the glass, and, twenty minutes later, mounted on his motor cycle, started for Long Island.

CHAPTER IV.
LATE HOURS AT MEADOWVIEW.

Freehold is a sleepy little village on Long Island. It has no railway stations, and its chief claim to distinction rests on the fact that it is intimately associated with the life of a revolutionary hero.

We are speaking now of the village itself, not of its[Pg 10] important neighborhood, for the latter boasts of more than one pretentious country house.

One of these is known far and wide as Meadowview. It’s a great pile of white sandstone, which was built in 1900 by Charles P. Massey, a millionaire banker.

The elder Massey died soon after Meadowview was completed, and it passed into the possession of his son, Francis Massey, who was himself nearing middle age.

At the time of which we write, the great house was occupied by Francis Massey, his wife, two grown daughters, and a large staff of servants.

Meadowview was distant about a mile and a half from Freehold, and was surrounded by spacious grounds.

These grounds were inclosed by a high stone wall, which divided them on two sides from the neighboring estates, on a third from a turnpike much favored by motorists, and on a fourth side from a narrow country lane.

The clock in the tower in one of Freehold’s churches was chiming a quarter to two when Max Berne, seated on his motor cycle, sped swiftly up the Main Street of the little village.

At that late—or early—hour, it need hardly be said that the inhabitants were all in bed. Some wakeful women may possibly have heard the clatter of his engine, but nobody saw him as he passed through the village, continued along the road for a mile and a half, and eventually into a narrow lane already mentioned.

“This is the lane Atherton spoke of, without a doubt,” he murmured, as he dismounted from his machine. “Now, to find the door.”

He started to walk up the deserted road, pushing his motor cycle in front of him. On one side was a low fence, overhung here and there by low trees and bushes; on the other side was a high stone wall, which marked the boundary of the Massey place.

The night was pitch dark, but his bicycle lamp gave him all the light he required. Presently, after walking a few hundred yards, he found what he was looking for—a wooden door let into the stone wall.

Having ascertained that the door was locked, he wheeled his machine across the road, set it up against the low bank just outside the fence, and cut a large branch from a neighboring tree. Armed with this branch, which was covered with leaves, he returned to the motor cycle and screened it in such a way that the foliage seemed to belong to a bush growing out from the side of the bank.

“That was a happy thought of one,” he told himself. “It wouldn’t have been easy to lift the machine over the fence, and there isn’t any natural shelter for it this side—at least, there’s none near enough to the gate to suit me.”

Before hiding the motor cycle in this way, he had extinguished the light. Now he retraced his steps to the wooden door, turned the lock with the skeleton key, and stepped into the well-kept grounds.

He closed and locked the door behind him, after which he drew out his electric torch. A momentary flash revealed the fact that a footpath started at the door and ran through the grounds, doubtless in the direction of the house.

“Just as Atherton said,” he muttered. “Now, shall I wait here until they arrive, or shall I spend the interval in having a look at the outside of the house?”

He consulted his watch.[Pg 11]

“Two o’clock,” he soliloquized. “They won’t be here for an hour yet. I’ll stroll up to the house, and then come back and wait for them.”

So numerous and closely planted were the trees that even if it had been lighted, the intruder could not have seen the house from where he stood. In fact, it was not until he had groped his way along the path for three or four hundred yards that he suddenly emerged from among the trees, and found himself in full view of the front of the house.

It was an imposing frontage, four stories high, and was approached from the main gates by a long, straight drive. A balustraded terrace ran along the whole front of the building, and outside the principal door were a handsome stone porch and a broad flight of steps.

At such an hour the waiter had naturally expected to find the house in darkness, and all its occupants in bed. Judge then of his surprise, to say nothing of his dismay, when he saw that a light was burning in the entrance hall, that the front door was wide open, and that two men—they appeared to be a butler and a footman—were standing on the porch.

“Jerusalem!” he exclaimed, whistling softly to himself. “This looks as if Atherton’s calculations had miscarried. He and his pals will certainly have to postpone their little enterprise, or else they’ll find themselves——”

His musings ended in a startled gasp, for at that moment his quick ears caught a sound which filled him with added dismay.

It was the distant chug-chug of a motor car, faint and far off at first, but growing louder and louder every moment.

CHAPTER V.
“HERE THEY COME.”

“Alfred Atherton and his bunch!” muttered Max, quivering with suppressed excitement. “They must have changed their plans at the last moment. I distinctly heard Atherton say to Frost that they would reach here about three o’clock, and it’s just after two now. Of course, they won’t be able to tackle the job under the circumstances. When they discover that the people in the house are astir, they’ll give up the attempt, and hotfoot it back to the big town—if they don’t blunder into hot water before they get wise.

“However,” he added to himself, “they won’t find out the state of affairs until they’ve entered the grounds through that door in the wall and followed the footpath to this spot. Consequently, if I hide behind these bushes, I shall be able to see who they are and hear what they say.”

He glided toward a neighboring clump of bushes, and was about to crouch down behind them when a pair of great, flashing eyes came into view at the foot of the drive. In other words, the car which he had heard had just turned in at the main gates of Meadowview.

For a moment, but only for a moment, Max was completely taken aback, then the truth dawned on him, and the look of bewilderment vanished from his face.

“I see the point,” he thought. “This isn’t Atherton, it must be Massey himself and his womenfolk coming back from the opera. Atherton told Frost that they would probably arrive about half past twelve, but they must[Pg 12] have had a breakdown. At any rate, they’re an hour and a half late.”

The waiter was right. Earlier in the evening Mr. and Mrs. Massey and their two daughters had motored to New York in order to attend the closing performance at the Metropolitan. They had started back for Freehold shortly after eleven, but engine trouble had delayed them for over an hour, and later they had had the bad luck of a blow-out, so that instead of reaching the house about half past twelve, they had not arrived until just after two.

The car, which was a closed one, swept up the drive, and halted before the entrance. The butler and the footman hurried down the steps, and the latter opened the door of the car. The first to alight was a middle-aged man in evening dress, who the waiter rightly guessed was Francis Massey.

“Here we are at last!” Max heard him say. “Did you think we were lost?”

“We were beginning to grow anxious, sir,” replied the butler. “James and I were just discussing whether we ought not to set out in search of you. Have you had an accident, sir?”

“Nothing but a blow-out and a cranky engine,” was the reply. “Are the rest of the servants in bed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, you and James can follow their example as soon as you’ve locked up. We don’t want any supper. We’re all tired out, and we’re going straight to bed.”

While he was speaking, he had assisted his wife and daughters to alight. As they passed up the steps and into the house, the waiter saw that each of the three ladies was wearing quantities of jewels in their hair, at their throats, and on their fingers. Lustrous pearls glowed softly, and priceless diamonds scintillated.

How the waiter’s eyes sparkled at the sight! He had often heard of the famous Massey jewels—collected in all parts of the world by the late Charles P. Massey—but never before had he seen them, and now that he saw them, he was only too ready to believe that popular rumor had not exaggerated when it estimated their value at nearly half a million.

“Atherton was right,” he muttered, under his breath. “A prize like that is worth the risk, even if the risk were ten times greater than it is.”

By this time the Masseys had entered the house, and the butler had followed them. The footman exchanged a few words with the chauffeur, then he, too, disappeared, closing and locking the door behind him. The driver slipped in his clutch—the engine was still running—and a moment later the car vanished round the end of the house on its way to the garage at the back.

Max glanced at his watch again, and thoughtfully rubbed his chin.

“This is shaving it pretty closely,” he thought. “Atherton calculated that everybody would be fast asleep by half past one at latest, but it will be nearly quarter to three at this rate before they quiet down. And those fellows will be here at three.”

He shook his head.

“I’m afraid it can’t be done to-night,” his thoughts ran on. “However, I may as well wait until they show up, and see what happens.”

The front of the house was all in darkness now, but[Pg 13] presently lights appeared in three of the bedroom windows.

“So they’ve gone straight to their rooms, as Massey said,” soliloquized the waiter, “but surely he’ll lock up the jewels before he turns in. Atherton said he always did——”

The sentence was left unfinished, for at that moment lights sprang up in the entrance hall once more, and a little later one of the windows on the ground floor was illuminated.

Curtains were drawn across the window, but they did not completely cover it, and, after a moment’s hesitation, Max stole up on the terrace and cautiously peered through into the room.

Its fittings indicated that it was a combination of library and study—evidently Massey’s den or office. Books lined the walls, there was a big flat desk in the center, and a small safe to one side.

At the moment when the lurking waiter peered into the room, Massey was in the act of opening the door of this safe. On a chair by his side was a tray, and on this tray lay a pile of leather cases, the appearance of which proclaimed that they contained the articles of jewelry which had recently adorned his wife and daughters, and which they must have turned over to him to lock up in the safe.

It goes without saying that the jewels were not kept permanently in this safe. They were stored, as a rule, in the safe-deposit vaults connected with Massey’s bank in New York. They had been brought from the bank that afternoon, however, in order that Mrs. Massey and her daughters might wear them at the opera, and doubtless they would be taken to the bank the next day.

In the meantime, for one night only, they were to repose in the safe at Meadowview. Plainly, that situation was the one for which Atherton had been waiting, and of which he had received advance information, thanks to his wife and intimate acquaintance with wealth and aristocracy.

Little dreaming that two keen eyes were watching his every movement, Massey placed the cases in the safe, closed the door, scattered the combination, and left the room after switching off the lights.

A few moments later the light in the entrance hall went out, then, one by one, the bedroom lights were extinguished, and the stately house wrapped itself in darkness and silence.

Max had returned to his chosen hiding place in the bushes, and crouched down there. Now, turning his back to the house, he pressed the button of his flash light and turned the white rays on the face of his watch for a moment.

“Twenty minutes to three,” he mused. “Perhaps, after all, they may be asleep by three o’clock. Anyhow, it’s Atherton’s risk, not mine. I think I’ll go and post myself where I can see them when they arrive.”

He retraced his steps along the footpath, until he came to the door which opened into the lane.

As already mentioned, there were many trees at that point, and one of them stood a couple of yards to the right of the door, and quite close to the wall.

“What is the matter with taking a reserve seat up there,” Max muttered. “I shall then be able to see in the road without going outside the wall, and without being seen myself.[Pg 14]”

He climbed the tree, and flattened himself along one of the lower branches, from which point of vantage he could command a view not only of the road, but of the footpath through the trees.

Ten minutes passed, then a faint, pulsating sound, like the purring of some gigantic cat fell on his ears.

“Here they come!” he told himself. “They’ve evidently got a first-class silencer on their car, and ten to one they’re driving without lights.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE WAITER MEETS WITH A SURPRISE.

Soon Max heard the approaching car turn out of the main road into the lane, and a moment or two later he could dimly see a bulky, shadowy object gliding up the latter.

“Stop!” said a cautious voice, which the waiter instantly recognized as that of Alfred Atherton. “Here’s the door, I think. You can switch on the light for a moment now, for there’ll be nobody about at this hour of the morning.”

The electric searchlights of the car flashed out, and by their dazzling illumination the waiter saw that the car was a big, open touring car, and contained five men. The front seat was occupied by the chauffeur—who was a stranger to Max—and Atherton. In the rear seat were three other men, all of whom, strangely enough, were known by sight and reputation to the man in the tree.

One of them, of course, was Jack Frost, the well-groomed man about town, whom Max had seen at the Marmawell Club a few hours earlier. His presence in the machine was no surprise to the waiter, for he had expected to see him there, but, at the sight of the other two, Max had hard work to suppress an exclamation of incredulous amazement.

The distinguished-looking man who was seated on Frost’s right was the famous Professor Tufts, a scientist of country-wide reputation. The little man with the crafty face, who was seated on Frost’s left, was the well-known society lawyer, named Frank Kinsley, who was popularly supposed to know more of the family secrets of the “Four Hundred” than any man in New York.

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” was the waiter’s inward declaration, as he restrained himself with an effort from making a start that might have dislodged him from his precarious position. “It was enough of a poser to discover that Alfred Knox Atherton and Jackson Frost were engaged in this sort of game, but Professor Tufts and Kinsley—that’s enough to take one’s breath away!”

Atherton stepped out of the car, and the others, except the chauffeur, followed suit.

“Yes, this is the door,” said the former, producing a bunch of skeleton keys. “Get out the things while I manipulate this lock.”

While Frost and Professor Tufts were lifting out an oblong case and a leather bag from the back of the car, Atherton picked the lock and opened the door.

“We’d better put on our masks now,” he said. “I don’t suppose we’ll meet anybody, but it’s just as well to be on the safe side.”

Each of the four men produced a mask of black silk, and adjusted it over the lower part of his face.[Pg 15]

“Put out those lights now,” ordered their leader, turning to the driver. “You know your orders. See that you obey them, and, above all, remember to keep your engine running, and if you hear any disturbance, have everything ready for flight the instant we return.”

The chauffeur switched off the electric lights, and a moment later Atherton and his three companions were walking slowly in single file along the footpath toward the house.

Atherton led the way with a small electric torch in his hand, which he turned on for a moment now and then. Professor Tufts came next, carrying the wooden case. Frost followed with the leather bag, and the lawyer brought up the rear.

The waiter remained where he was until the sound of their footsteps had died away, then, with no more noise than a cat would have made, he slipped down the tree and glided after them.

By the time he came in sight of the house, Atherton had forced the catch of the study window—a French window—and he and his three companions were in the act of stealing into the room.

Kinsley was the last to enter, and as soon as he was inside, the curtains were again drawn across the window, but it was left open.

For five or ten minutes Max Berne stood at the edge of the open space, staring at the open window. Then his curiosity overmastered him, he crept up on the terrace, fell on his hands and knees outside the window, and cautiously raised the lower edge of the curtain.

What he saw caused him no surprise, for it was what he had expected to see.

Out of the wooden case Professor Tufts had taken an ingenious little apparatus, of which the essential feature was an oxyhydrogen blowpipe. With the assistance of his companions he was directing the flame to that part of the safe door which surrounded the lock.

So intense was the heat of the flame, that it melted the steel as easily as a hot knife cuts through butter. In an incredibly short time a circular hole had been cut through the door. A minute or two later the safe was open, and Kinsley and Frost were about to pack the cases of jewelry into the leather box.

Suddenly the waiter saw something which almost caused his heart to stop beating.

CHAPTER VII.
A SHOT FROM THE DARK.

The study door was opposite the window. It was shut, but not locked, of course, and all at once Max saw a knob begin to turn.

Apparently it made no sound, for the four men went on with their work—the lawyer and Frost opening the bag preparatory to putting the jewel cases into it, and Atherton and Professor Tufts stowing away the apparatus in its case.

Every fiber of the waiter’s being tingled with suppressed excitement. It was only too plain that somebody was outside the door, preparing to burst in and take the burglars by surprise.

What ought he to do? Should he call out and warn them of their danger? Should he make his own escape before the storm burst?

He had no time to decide, for all at once, with dramatic[Pg 16] suddenness, the door was flung open, and Francis Massey sprang into the room clad in dressing gown and slippers, and armed with a revolver.

“Hands up, if you don’t want a bullet in you!” he cried, leveling his weapon at Atherton with one hand, while with the other he pressed the switch beside the door and flooded the room with light.

The intruders had been content with their electric torches and the brilliant flame of the blowpipe.

With simultaneous cries of dismay the four men spun around and faced the owner of the house.

“Stop that instantly, or I’ll fire!” cried the latter, as Atherton’s hand stole toward his pocket. “Put your hands up, all of you! This revolver is loaded in every chamber, and as you may be aware, I have some little reputation as a crack shot.”

This was true enough, for Francis Massey had been a famous sportsman in his younger days, and was still an expert with the revolver.

Half the length of the room separated him from the four men, and if they had attempted to rush him, he could have—and probably would have—dropped all four of them before they could have reached him.

“That’s better!” he said grimly, as the quartet quickly raised their hands above their heads. “Now, kindly oblige me by walking backward and standing with your backs to that wall behind you. Be quick about it!”

The waiter outside could have laughed at the ignominious spectacle presented by the four masked burglars as they silently and sullenly shuffled backward, and ranged themselves in a line against the wall.

Although the scene appealed to his sense of humor, it also had its serious side—even from Max’s point of view.

All his plans for the future would be ruined if these men were captured and their identity unmasked. At any rate, they must be allowed to escape, and, after a moment’s hurried thought, the waiter drew out his own revolver and cautiously pushed the muzzle under the lower edge of the curtain.

“Massey doesn’t happen to be the only crack shot on hand,” he told himself.

“I’m now going to ring for help,” the millionaire announced, moving slowly toward an electric button set into his desk. “You’ll remain just where you are until the servants come, and the very first man among you who attempts to play any tricks will be shot down like a dog, without any further——”

Crack!

At that moment Max Berne pressed the trigger of his revolver, and the bullet, true to its aim, struck Massey on the wrist, shattering the bone and causing him to drop the weapon with an involuntary howl of pain.

What happened next the waiter did not stop to see. As soon as he had fired and had thereby given Atherton and his companions a chance to make their escape, he leaped to his feet and dashed off in the direction of the wooden door, which opened into the lane.

Long before he reached the door, he heard the four men racing across in the same direction. As he did not wish them to see him, however, he hid himself behind some bushes, but as soon as they had passed him, he emerged from his hiding place, and followed them at a little distance.

Meanwhile, the report of the revolver had aroused[Pg 17] the occupants of the house, and by the time Max reached the door in the wall, he could hear the servants running out of the house and calling to one another through the darkness.

By that time, though, Atherton and the others had scrambled into their machine, and the car was halfway down the lane.

Swiftly, yet without any trace of flurry, the waiter darted across the road, snatched away the screen of leaves from his motor cycle, and wheeled the machine into the lane.

While he was starting the engine, he heard a number of servants running toward the door, and, just as he mounted, two of them dashed out.

“Here’s one of them!” called the foremost servant, and, as he uttered the words, he rushed at Max and tried to seize him by the arm.

A blow in the mouth, however, sent him reeling back into the arms of the other servants, and the next instant the waiter was scorching down the lane at a speed which defied pursuit.

Half an hour later, after passing through Freehold, Berne caught sight of the tail lights of Atherton’s car. He easily could have overtaken it had he wished, but he preferred to follow it at a respectful distance.

Eventually, to make a long story short, he saw it thread its way through the outlying districts of Long Island City, across the Queensborough Bridge, and plunge into the narrow streets of the East Side.

Even then he did not leave the trail, but followed until the big car drew up in front of the huge apartment house in which Alfred Atherton maintained his luxurious bachelor quarters.

As the leader of the kid-gloved crooks alighted from the car, Max Berne rattled past on his motor cycle.

He could not resist the temptation.

“Good night, Mr. Atherton,” he called out.

The society man wheeled about with thumping heart, but was too late to see more than the cyclist’s back.

“That will give him something to think about!” murmured the waiter. “I hope he hasn’t got a weak heart!”

“Great heavens!” ejaculated the startled Atherton. “Who was that, and how long has he been following us?”

But none of the others could say, and although they tried to shake off the uneasy feeling it gave them, they were not altogether successful.

CHAPTER VIII.
A DARING VENTURE.

About quarter of two the following afternoon, Alfred Knox Atherton descended in the elevator of the big apartment house, and was about to enter his handsome electric coupé when Max Berne stepped up to him and respectfully raised his hat.

“Hello, Max!” Atherton exclaimed good-naturedly. “What are you doing here? Brought me a message from the club?”

“No, sir,” replied the waiter. “I’ve left the Marmawell. I gave up my position this morning, and paid them a month’s wages in lieu of notice.”

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” declared Atherton. “We shall miss you greatly. You’ve got another and better job, I suppose?[Pg 18]”

“Not yet, sir, but with your assistance I hope to get a very much better job. That’s why I’ve come to you now.”

“I see. Well, I will be very glad to do what I can to help you, but I’m sorry to say that I cannot talk with you now. I’m just off to lunch with Professor Tufts. Call again this evening between seven and eight, and we’ll talk the matter over.”

“Thank you, sir, but I can’t wait until this evening. I must see you now.”

Atherton raised his brows.

“Must!” he repeated. “Really, Max, you’re forgetting yourself. That’s hardly the way to speak to me, if you desire my help. However, I don’t suppose you meant to be impertinent.”

“Not at all,” was the reply. “All the same, sir, I repeat that I must see you now.”

“And I repeat that I can’t and won’t see you!” Atherton replied, growing angry.

“I think you will, sir,” Berne assured him suavely.

“And why, pray?” demanded the society man.

The waiter came a step or two nearer, so that the chauffeur could not hear.

“I was at Meadowview at three o’clock this morning,” he murmured.

Alfred Atherton went suddenly white, but he recovered himself almost instantly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, “but as you seem to think you do, I suppose I can give you five minutes. Come along.”

Without another word he led the way into the building, and entered the waiting elevator. They were shot up a few floors, and Max Berne was ushered into a luxuriously furnished room overlooking the wide avenue.

“Will you sit down?” Atherton asked, in tones of icy politeness.

He pointed to a chair in the middle of the room, but his visitor smilingly shook his head and seated himself at one of the windows.

“This will suit me better, I think,” the waiter answered blandly. “It will be easier for me to attract the attention of the people in the street—if I need to. Also,” he added, as he drew a loaded revolver from his pocket. “I shall feel more at home if I hold this in my hand while I talk.”

Atherton shrugged his shoulders and seated himself in the chair which he had offered to the waiter.

“Well, I’m waiting to hear why you have come to see me,” he said coldly. “Please be as brief as you can, for I can only spare you five minutes.”

Max assumed an air of injured innocence.

“What an ungrateful world it is!” he remarked, with a sigh. “Surely, I deserve a more cordial reception than this, considering the fact that only about twelve hours ago I saved you from arrest and ruin.”

Atherton gave a perceptible start.

“What do you mean?” he asked quickly.

“I mean,” was the reply, “that it was I who fired that bullet which smashed Francis Massey’s wrist, and enabled you and your friends to escape.”

His host jumped to his feet and planted himself in front of Max.

“Is that true?” he demanded.

The waiter nodded.

“I was crouching outside the study window,” he ex[Pg 19]plained, “when Massey burst into the room and covered you with his revolver. I slipped my own gun under the curtain, and drew a bead on him.”